


I dreamed it was a good one

by hopefor46



Category: Pod Save America (RPF)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Established Relationship, Fantasy, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Morning Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2019-02-26 00:52:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13224765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hopefor46/pseuds/hopefor46
Summary: Jon met a lot of people in his White House days who believed in their call to public service, and he prided himself on never being one of them. Now crammed in the back of a rented bus on the way to Richmond, Jon asks himself: what would Tommy do?





	I dreamed it was a good one

The late Lovett or Leave It is a huge success. Jon’s beaming as he hops out of his Lyft at the hotel. To return to D.C. to such a crowd is beyond his imagining. Even the show six months ago wasn’t as raucous as this. With each show he gets more focused, sharper; he can feel himself improving, and it’s a relief because at first he wasn’t sure he could carry it.

He’s earned this minute of preening, he tells himself by the elevators. Tomorrow he can start working on the next show.

The only thing that could make the night better, he thinks, is when he keys into his hotel room and catches the light of the bedside lamp. Tommy’s stretched out on one side of the bed, laptop open. He looks delighted to see him, as if it hadn’t been just a few short hours since they were onstage together.

“Hail the conquering hero,” Tommy cracks from the bed.

“With my sword or on it,” Jon crows, kicking off his sneakers and, why not, his pants too. “Wait. That’s not it.”

“Your shield,” Tommy supplies.

“Sure, you dork. Are you seriously working right now?” Jon chides him gently.

“Just messing around.” Tommy shuts his laptop and gently sets it on the night table, next to his open beer. Jon clambers into Tommy’s lap, knees encasing thighs.

“Welcome back.” He probably was interrupting a treatise on the plight of the Rohingya or something, but it can wait, right?

“You could’ve been there,” Jon says, tapping Tommy’s nose. “Would’ve got you VIP.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Very important… podcaster.” When he finds it Tommy’s mouth is so hot and fond. Like he’s been sitting here waiting for this to happen. Like Jon willed their whole thing into being. “Wow, you’re so easy for this preferential treatment.”

“Not the treatment,” Tommy says, shifting to kiss him deeper. His hands wrap around Jon’s back. When he breaks the kiss Jon lets out a little involuntary cry. It’s just the air, he tells himself. “Only for you.”

“I--” Already full of post-show adrenaline, Jon’s heart is pounding. “I don’t know,” he finally gasps, “that, Pod Save, the World, prep…” Tommy’s lips have drifted over to his neck where he’s licking just so lightly underneath his jaw. “...Is _pretty_ spicy,” Jon concludes lamely, breathless. Funny that he accused Tommy of waiting up for him, for _this_ , when he was craving it. Even more than he realized.

“It can wait,” Tommy says, still so controlled. He’s delighted, Jon sees, to see him falling apart like this. But Jon knows a thing or two by now about what gets Tommy off the handle.

“I should let you study,” Jon says.

“You sure?” It’s hard to concentrate with Tommy shifting beneath him, rolling his hips up just a little. But Jon wants him just as crazy under his skin as Jon is.

“But you know,” Jon adds casually, “I see that this bed has a headboard. I’d maybe be interested in checking that out. With my hands. On my knees. Wanna help me?”

He can feel Tommy groan through his whole body.

 

 

In a way it’s fitting that what’s happens next, happens in D.C.

Tommy goes for a run the next morning before they meet their friends at brunch. Jon stirs in bed, feeling a warm shape up against his legs. Cracks one eye open, about to make a quip, and then sits up in a hurry.

“What the fuck.”

There’s something sitting on his bed. Something huge. It--whatever it is--is very tall, nearly folded over double to sit on the bed, with great fat feathered wings like a children’s book.

“What the FUCK,” Jon repeats, scrambling for--a pen? The phone? The lamp, he settles on, but when he turns it on the view doesn’t change. “What the living FUCK is happening here.”

It turns to him with what would be its face, but it has no face, just a giant grey hood tunneling into darkness like a statue.

“I’m having a nightmare,” Jon says out loud. “I ate too many mozzarella sticks and now I’m having a cheese dream. I’m just going to lie down and it’ll all be over.”

The… thing… shakes its head, or its uppermost part, shortly, decisively.

“What _are_ you? What are you doing in here?” Remembering that he fell asleep in his Tommyjohn briefs, he hastily yanks the covers up as far as they’ll go, but he still feels--exposed.

From in its sleeve the creature draws out a card, of a thick creamy stock like a wedding invite, and passes it to Jon. His fingers shakes as he takes it, and to his shock, reads his own name:

 

 

> JON LOVETT
> 
> ARE YOU WILLING TO SAVE THE COUNTRY?

Jon laughs over his terror. Where is Tommy? He hates himself for thinking that Tommy would know how to deal with this better than he is. Would know how to placate this--whatever this is.

“What the fuck kind of prank is this. Mike? Cody? Are you in there?”

The being shakes its head again.

“Yeah,” he snorts, “Sure. I’m way into that as long as it doesn’t involve, like, dying or something. But what does this even mean? Am I getting inducted into the Justice League? If so, can I be Ezra Miller’s--” 

The thing draws itself up to an impressive height, nearly brushing the ceiling. It points at the hotel TV, which immediately flickers to life.

It’s the middle of a news broadcast. “President Clinton visited today with immigrants affected by her new citizenship policy benefiting the young Americans known as the Dreamers. Later, she cut a ribbon at a new alternative energy plant in West Virginia that will receive a major grant towards developing jobs in rural America.” Footage of a familiar figure in a pantsuit with a hard hat on, standing at a podium.

“Coming up, the anniversary of the Paris climate accord and a firsthand account of the Syrian peace talks taking place in Oslo. Plus, we’ll take a look at this year’s Obamacare enrollments: What you need to know to take advantage of the newly shored up--”

With another wave of the monster’s hand, the TV shuts off.

“What the fuck.” It was a fantasy Jon indulged himself in right after the election, just a little, while he was sending angry emails and visiting McDonald’s once too often and forcing Pundit to sit still for cuddles. But he hadn’t let himself think about it that deeply, recently. There just didn’t seem to be a point.

Never would he have expected to answer the question he was, apparently, about to answer.

“So I can choose to... choose that." 

The thing nods, once.

Jon winces before he continues. “What’s the catch?”

The creature--like an angel?--or maybe a gargoyle, Jon doesn’t really remember what they are--sweeps its arm around, and a number of Jon’s things collect on the bed in front of him.

His paper planner falls open to Healthcare Week and as he watches, every “Podcast Taping,” “Sponsor Meeting” and “Don’t Be Late To The Improv You Jerk” note disappears.

A stack of yellow folders Favreau had trusted him with showing the Crooked Media ad rates compresses itself into a ball, and poof! It’s gone.

His Lovett or Leave It shirt grows faint on the quilt before it disappears altogether.

The creature lifts one wing and gestures as if erasing a giant blackboard.

“Okay, stop. Heh,” Jon chuckles nervously at his own joke.  “Sorry, it’s a thing of mine. Like, everything gets erased from after the election?”

The creature nods.

“But I’m still me?”

The creature nods again.

“So it’s just the country.”

On the quilt, his Lovett or Leave It shirt flickers back to life, and then disappears.

“And… my, uh, my job. Our jobs.”

Jon considers this. Sure, if they hadn’t lost the election, they wouldn’t have founded Crooked Media in the first place. And then he would have… God, what was he going to do instead? It feels like such a long time ago. They’ve all grown into each other like vines since then. Especially--

“What about Tommy?”

The being shakes its head.

“What do you mean by that?” Another impenetrable shake. Jon looks down at the sheets.

“So we won’t be, ah. He and I. We won’t.” He senses the thing is losing patience with him, which, the _fuck_ , it’s not every day a celestial being visits you on the 4th floor of a Hampton Inn.

The room feels smaller, hotter, maybe because of the giant fucking winged thing sitting on his bed.

“Ohhhh-kay,” Jon says, using his best stalling voice he used to use for his producers, “I’m going to--make some pros and cons lists, yeah, some lists, and then I need to call a few people, and then we--”

The bed shakes under him. The creature shakes its head like a giant bell and it feels like heavy footsteps on the floor above.

“I can’t tell anyone?” Jon sputters. Another shake. Jon grips the headboard behind him like he’s going to slide off the bed. Funny that he remembered that was there.

“I can’t _tell anyone_ that this is happening. Whoo! I talk for a living. Do you understand that about me?” The shaking increases till Jon seriously wonders if the ceiling will cave in on him. That’ll be something to explain to Tanya. Yikes.

“Okay, okay, Jesus, I get it. Do I have to decide _now_? How long do I have?”

The creature produces another card from its sleeve, this one more like an invitation with scalloped edges:

 

 

> NOVEMBER THE 8TH
> 
> MIDNIGHT 

“Oh, ha ha, very f--” Jon stares into the hood. “Okay, you have no sense of humor. I have to decide by Wednesday?” A solemn nod.

“And I’m supposed to, what, write it in an email?”

The creature inclines its head, as if studying him for a sign of life.

“You know I don’t live here, right?”

Jon starts for a minute. “Will I remember anything from this year?”

The being gives a dismissive wave, almost a shrug. It’s infuriating that a thing so imposing can just duck questions that easily.

“You should’ve been a press rep,” Jon jokes to the usual stony silence. That reminds him of Tommy again. Jon swallows hard.

“If I--will he remember?” No answer, no response.

“Hey, can I ask--why is it me? I’m Jewish, I mean, loosely, not sure I believe in all this wings and feathers stuff. Unless you’re like a golem, but I don’t think you are. I don’t even know what I believe in. Why me?”

The angel looks at him, but just shakes its head slowly.

Jon hears an enormous rush of air, like all the hotel air-conditioners turned on at once, and then he’s alone again. He looks around the room warily. Checks the clock.

He lies awake for several minutes. He might as well get up now, there’s no way he can lie in bed contemplating this. Tommy will be back any minute and will be able to read it all over his face. Jon’s heavy in his feet as he walks into the bathroom, turns on the shower without checking the temperature.

 

 

Jon met a lot of people in his White House days who believed in their call to public service, and he prided himself on never being one of them. He loved his job, and he loved some of the causes, some of the time, but he never wanted to kid himself that his scratching and wordplay was truly noble or good. It was how he kept working harder, staying grateful. Not being a jerk.

He figured someone would always be called on ahead of him to put things right.

Now crammed in the back of a rented bus on the way to Richmond with his best friends, his headphones on and no sound coming out, Jon asks himself: what would Tommy do? He keeps asking, even though he already knows the answer.

They'll be okay. He'll be--

Somehow the idea of forgetting is worse than knowing he'll wake up and he'll know, and no one else will, about the twin goods that came out of a very bad year. About this thing they all started together. Him, and his friends. And Tommy.

Jon thinks about Tommy, in the early days right after they decided to start the company, always bounding out of security at LAX to greet him. At first he just crashed at Jon’s because Favs and Emily only had one bathroom, and besides their place was Wedding Planning Central and Tommy didn’t want to get in the middle of that. Tommy started buying his own groceries and making Jon breakfast. Took baby Pundit out for runs and then fed her too many treats. By the time Jon felt the old feelings coming back, it was too late to do anything but pretend everything was normal.

It would make a great screenplay, he thought to himself. What happens when your old office crush becomes your roommate, again, now even hotter? Of course in the movie, Jon would be 6 feet tall, maybe Jason Segel, and Tommy’s a girl, probably. Rom-coms are so heteronormative. He even wrote a treatment for it in the back of his bullshit Julia Cameron Artist’s Way journal, trying to scrawl as messy as possible in case anyone accidentally picked it up. Riding to professional success on the back of an unrequited love: that seems like the Jon Lovett way.

One late night after they got home from a planning meeting, they were drinking Stiegl Radlers on the couch, Jon with both feet draped over the arm rest and Tommy stretched out next to with his legs on the coffee table. They were laughing about something and Tommy cried, “What made you like this, anyway?”

“You mean...  prickly? Petulant? A monster? _Extremely_ perfect?”

“I mean… just you.”

“I don’t know. They haven’t found the antidote.”

Tommy looked at his lap, smiling. “I wouldn’t take it.”

“What?” He clambered around till he was facing him, one leg dangling off the couch. “What does that mean, exactly?”

“I don’t know.” Tommy looked at Jon intently, reading his face like it was a briefing. Jon could be pretty slow on the uptake, but when he’d seen that look before, only one thing followed.

“Say it again.” Tommy looked down at his hands as a beautiful blush spread over his face. What cure for the spokesman who suddenly has nothing to say?

Cursing his beaten-down, slope-cushioned couch, Jon half scooted, half-slid into Tommy’s thighs. He took hold of Tommy’s shoulders like he was going to shake him and, cursing the half a foot or more Tommy has on him, boosted himself up till they were almost nose to nose.

“Tommy Vietor,” he said dramatically, “are you trying to seduce me? ‘Cause I--” but he never finished the joke because Tommy crushes his mouth to his and after that, nothing is funny, nothing is right in the world but his lips and his tongue and his arms pressing Jon into him. Everything Jon knew and wanted was crushed in the space between their chests.

It felt like a meteor sighting, something that would dissolve in the daylight, but he woke up and Tommy was still there, folded around Jon in bed like an envelope. Jon lay perfectly still in his arms, dreading the point where the million thoughts running through his head might escape from his mouth.

He had to be honest with himself now: from that moment on, there was nothing else. The more Jon fell in love, the harder he worked, wanted to make every joke land for an audience of one. He knew everyone knew, and that he should be embarrassed. What was he, in high school debate again, preening for a crush? But when he saw Tommy’s blond head bent in concentration as he prepped for his interviews, long after everyone else left the office, he knew he wasn’t the only one. They worked together and they walked Pundit together and they fell asleep spent together, and the strange thing was, Jon never felt crowded.

Playing tired and wearing his big headphones deliberately all day so no one would talk to him was pretty characteristic of Jon, so luckily no one thought it was weird. They probably thought he just needed a tour break, especially when they were going to spend all Monday canvassing.

Backstage before the Richmond show, Jon thinks: Why couldn’t have the world have ended that one night? That morning, that quiet? At least he’d go out on a high note. Ten feet away, Tommy sees him frowning and tilts his head with concern, like an adorable dog.

 

 

Canvassing in Virginia allows him to exit his brain for a while, focus on the operations and the day-to-day mechanics. On the plane, inexplicably seated away from the rest of the crew, Jon has nowhere to run from his own thoughts. Knowing that it won’t do any good to dwell on the past, he still can’t stop doing it.

When this thing with Tommy started, for a time he’d braced himself every night and morning for it to end. Felt the shock in his body like--shit, like the day after the election, stirring from sleep, remembering the news all over again. Every kiss, no matter how casual, would probably their last, Jon would think morosely as he drove home from Tommy’s at night or in the morning. He saw it in himself, that state where every wistful top-40 song he not only recognized but would _hum along_. Then one day… the cloud lifted, and he realized Tommy wasn’t going anywhere.

He’d felt sick with relief, but maybe taken Tommy, and everything, for granted in some little ways. He wanted to do everything with him, now that there wasn’t time. He should have acceded to his pleas to go hiking, so he could make fun of his dumb utility shorts while secretly admiring the slim lines in his calves. 

He should have cajoled him to drive up to Palm Springs and take silly pictures by the pool. (He didn’t even have that many pictures of just him and Tommy. How dumb was that?)

They should have flown back to Jon’s hometown, where Jon could drive Tommy around making cracks about the dumb bullies who never amounted to anything. They could’ve made out in the parking lot of his old high school in a last act of vengeance.

They should have moved in together. What had Jon been so afraid of? He told himself it only made sense to wait a little while, that they already spent their whole days together already; but what was the point in being prudent now?

Fuck, they could have gotten married. As soon as he thinks it, Jon sees it in terrible full-color vision. Fuck his overactive imagination. He puts his head between his knees, hoping his seatmates will only think he’s vomiting. Tommy standing in front of the courthouse in D.C. where Jon contested all his old biking tickets. Tommy in a crisp white shirt, holding back happy tears. Tommy sliding a ring on his finger.

Jon hunches over, truly nauseated now, with the terrible knowledge that if Tommy had asked, he would have said: yes.

Jon pretends he’s asleep on his feet coming off the plane Monday night so he can go home to Tommy’s. It’s helpful, because then he can close his eyes in the back seat of the Lyft, try not to give away the fact that his heart is pounding. He only has, what, two days left?

When Tommy’s alarm goes off at 5:15, Jon almost turns over in bed to bury himself in the covers before he reminds himself of his mission. Ever the routinizer, Tommy immediately sits up, swings his legs over the side of the bed and starts scrolling through his phone.

“ _Noooo_ ,” Jon says, throwing his arm around Tommy’s hip. “Too early.”

“Got Barry’s,” Tommy mumbles.

“Fuck Barry’s.” Jon rises and clumsily crawls over to him. Traces his fingers light over Tommy’s bare shoulders and back. “Tommy. I’ll pay the cancel fee.” Still wobbly from being jolted awake, he gets up on his knees and fits his mouth to Tommy’s neck.

“Gotta get--” Tommy says between gasps. “Back to the--grind--” Jon bites him gently, not to mark, where his neck meets his shoulder. With one hand on Tommy’s other shoulder for balance, Jon strokes his side, traces his waistband over to his front.

“Stay in bed with me,” Jon whispers fiercely. “Just this once.” It was never just once, they both knew that, but when he gets a grip on Tommy’s cock, already hard through his boxer briefs, he knows he’s won the argument.

He tugs Tommy back down onto the bed, pulls him up so he can scoot his legs back on. Kisses him from above, first goofy and light, and then ardent, using his tongue to beg entrance. Skates his nails over Tommy’s chest and feels him shiver up to him.

“What,” Tommy croaks. “You,” he starts, his voice all cobwebby from sleep. Jon clambers around him so they can press their chests together, so he can trap him in with his legs and give him a little friction, what he knows will make Tommy crazy.

Eventually they end up on their sides, face to face, more gentle than their usual but so intense. Tommy rocks against him, gently, never completely pulling out but still fucking into him so deep. His strokes are so exquisite, Jon struggles to keep his eyes from rolling back into his head. He needs to _see_ Tommy, so beautiful.

“God, the way you give it to me,” he pants, stroking himself, feeling shameless and embarrassed by how much he wants this, but not caring. He brushes Tommy’s hair off his forehead with his free hand. Pulls him by the neck for a kiss when Tommy’s buried so deep inside him, it’s almost like they’re one person, one tangle of legs and hips and hearts.

“Please,” he begs Tommy. “I want to feel you.” Tommy moans and crushes his lips to Jon’s, and Jon can feel him shaking as he comes.

Afterward, he turns Tommy over in bed so Jon can be the big spoon for once.

“Here you manhandle me,” Tommy mumbles, kissing Jon’s hands. Jon tries so hard to stay in that soft cloud with him, pressing his forehead to Tommy’s back. If he could have a million mornings like this, it would never be enough.

Over morning coffee, Tommy says, “What got into _you_ today,” and kisses the top of Jon’s head, his curls wet from the shower. Jon pretends to be very interested in the clouds of milk floating to the top of his mug.

 

 

Jon normally loves being in the office, but today it’s a torture, knowing this could be the last time. He feels restless, all his nervous energy from his mouth transferring into his body. He jumps out of his seat to help Elijah do the coffee run and tells him on the way back about what a solid hire he is. He confides in Tanya about a funny thing Tommy said in his sleep, just so she’ll blush and look scandalized. At lunch he and Favs take Pundit and Leo out for a long walk, then they come back and raid the new Naturebox for all the good snacks, even though they don’t taste as good as normal. He sends Dan comments on his last Crooked Conversations interview and Dan writes back, “Can’t believe those are your only suggestions. Are you feeling all right?”

When Tommy’s packing up, Jon casually slides his laptop into his bag and walks out with him, later realizing he forgot to recycle all the Diet Cokes on his desk. But what will it matter tomorrow?

“Hey, you wanna come over tonight?” He hopes he doesn’t sound too panicked. Tommy casually pulls him in like it’s nothing.

“Sure, I--oh, shit. I forgot the neighborhood council meeting. I promised I would speak out on behalf of the new dog park.” 

“You do-gooder, you,” Jon laughs, trying so hard to keep the bitterness out of his voice. “You don’t even have a dog yet.”

“For when I borrow yours,” Tommy says. He kisses Jon on the temple. “You feel a little warm.” 

“Yeah, I’m just a little, eh. Must be from tour.” 

“Well, Eh,” Tommy says, “Go home and do something nice for yourself. Get caught up on Bojack, order some Postmates.” Gently, he tips Jon’s head back just a little that he can swoop in for a soft kiss. Jon never learned where Tommy learned all that old-timey gentlemanly shit, and now he’ll never know.

“Take it easy,” Tommy emphasizes. “You seem a little shaky.”

“Just cold,” Jon says into his chest. “Oh sorry, got something of yours.” He reaches into his bag and presses the office copy of _The Economist_ into his hand.

“I was looking for this! Thanks,” Tommy says, and with a smile he gets into his car.

Hopefully diligent Tommy will lay out the magazine next to his bed, flip it open while he’s brushing his teeth. Hopefully before he falls asleep he’ll get to the page with the article about Eurovision and Russia, where Jon left him a note on a Post-It: “BOB MUELLER ARE YOU WATCHING THIS??? COLLUSION! LOVE, JON” It wasn’t really a good joke, because for once in his life, Jon couldn’t think of anything funny. But he needed something so at least that version of Tommy will go to wherever he goes, thinking of him.

At home he orders sad pizza for himself and hopes he’ll fall asleep in the middle of eating it, but he’s never so lucky. He turns off his phone--had forgotten that was an option, honestly--and surfs Netflix, laughing out loud at himself when he realizes he’s looking for new shows that might not exist any more. Of all the pointless exercises.

He’s sitting in his living room with a bottle of Chardonnay open, the hallway light on, _such_ a cliche, when he hears a rush of wind and finds the angel on his recliner.

“You shed on that thing, I’m gonna tell your boss,” he jokes, hoping it can’t see his reddened eyes in the dark. Hoping it wasn’t watching when he sat in that recliner an hour ago, himself doubled over, pressing his hands into his eyes like the tears were going to stop all on their own.  

The angel hands him a note card printed in ornate blocky script: HAVE YOU DECIDED?

“I have,” he says all shaky. “Just, do it fast, okay?” The angel raises its wings.

 

 

The “One Year Out” panel is a huge success; they sell out the Chicago Theatre and raise a hefty donation for the IRC. Axe is beaming like 2008 all over again, except without the mustache. “Still not over that thing being missing,” Jon tells him.

He hugs Cody first when he arrives; he’s in L.A. from time to time after following their old boss to the Obama Foundation.

“Sorry about your Cubs,” he proffers blandly.

“Thanks, Jon. In a way it was worse last year, when we were only a few games away.”

“Sorry, I still don’t get baseball,” and Cody guffaws, the hearty laugh Jon remembers. He discreetly checks Cody’s hand for a wedding ring. Good, at least that didn’t get messed up.

During the panel, Jon looks around onstage and marvels at where they’ve all ended up. Pfeiffer started his own strategy firm dedicated to mentoring young candidates in their first elections. He doesn’t seem to stay in the same state for longer than 24 hours and grumbles good-naturedly about the pitiable state of in-flight WiFi. (“I kept telling you!” Jon almost blurts out, but doesn’t.) They still all think he’s going to run one day; Favs and Tommy even have a bet about it.

Favs has gone over to the dark side, they all joke; his consulting gig on the DCCC led them to create a new job for him, developing messaging for all 50 states. They all re-subscribe to the emails and then forward them to him with notes. Sometimes he even takes their advice. He’s still in L.A., mostly, so he and Jon get drinks every once in a while. He’d probably move back East full-time, but Emily’s not so sure; she likes the sunshine, just got promoted again herself.

Jon’s script didn’t leave pilot season alive, but he’s got a few projects going, and picked up a staffing job on “Unreal.” (He’d had to call his agent to confirm that one, the coincidence was just too neat. She clearly thought he’d gone off the rails.)

Being back in the writers’ room is maddening but entertaining. He went through the classic emotions of frustration and depression at the long hours, the close quarters, not getting to spend hours on the couch with Pundit, but he’s adjusted. Went back to the gym, did a little bit of stand-up. He got to write on the Golden Globes, that was pretty cool--too bad he didn’t remember.

He’s even been dating, a little bit. He really means to get back out there. He was seeing someone for a little while, an actor, but it just wasn’t going anywhere. 

And then there’s Tommy, who against all odds went back to DC full-time, back to NatSec. Jon doesn’t see him too often, the President doesn’t get out to California much, but he’s always sending him photos and jokes from their old corners in the West Wing. Jon hears from Cody that the Vice President depends on him especially before State visits.   

“How is it working with a guy with all those dad jokes?” Jon asks him at the post-show party. This one’s not for the donors, just for them; Favs rented out the dive bar on Sedgwick he and Tommy used to close down every weekend and the crowd is roiling for a Wednesday. People keep tapping Jon on the shoulder and encouraging him to try the new Goose Island on tap, while he’s in town. He sticks to Miller Lite mostly out of habit.

“It’s a deep well,” Tommy giggles. “But he’s a really smart guy.”

“That’s great. Hey, you could be promoted to Dep Sec in a few years.”

“Well, as long as I don’t go on Fox News again.”

“Oh, so we’re joking about that now?” They laugh until Tommy has to hold himself up on Jon’s shoulder, curling over in delight. Jon focuses on planting his feet, standing very straight, neither resisting nor encouraging this.

The angel was wrong; he remembers. Too much, if Jon’s being honest. “Intrusive thoughts” is the phrase he’s been given, which he repeats like a mantra; it sounds better than the real story, that he can’t help living in a past no one else remembers. He’s been in therapy about it, leaving out the part about the angel even though you’re not supposed to lie to your therapist.

It’s just a little gift he gave himself when he woke up on his own couch, on January 20, with cable blaring the Clinton inaugural procession, and tried to frantically piece together his new life. Reading his own Twitter feed. Refreshing the Keepin’ It 1600 feed to where it ended, with Episode 62, “The Future Looks Bright.” Googling “Crooked Media” and finding only a bunch of old jokes about a former presidential nominee, a term nominated to leave behind in 2016. He still had a bunch of questions and nobody to ask. What’d he do for Thanksgiving? Why didn’t he go back to D.C. too? How did Pundit get so calm?

It’s not like he’s been avoiding Tommy in particular, but neither has he tried to engineer a moment like this, with both of them leaned up at the same bar, turned into each other. Just two old friends having a conversation. He hasn’t seen him since Favs’ wedding, actually, with the ebullient Shomik around to lighten the mood. He keeps telling himself he’ll get back to D.C. soon, but putting it off.

“It’s weird,” Tommy says, gripping the bar with one hand, “I had a dream about you the other day.”

“If it’s the kind of thing where we’re all cartoon cats, I don’t want to hear about it.” 

“No, it was… kind of serious, actually.” Tommy tilts his chin down, the way he does when he’s trying to summon a lot of details. “Trump won the election, and you and Favreau and I, we were… working together. We weren’t in government any more, but we were like trying to put up an opposition.”

“Trump winning? Sounds like a nightmare,” Jon laughs and bounces on his toes, deflecting the urge to _tell him_ that bubbled up to the top of his brain.

“I know, right? Anyway, that part was scary, but at least we were all together. I think we even got an office together.”

“Oh man, the bro quotient in that office. Yikes.” He tries telepathy: _Please, Tommy. Stop._

“There was something else…” Tommy flicks his eyes upward like he’s studying the ceiling. “Nah, lost it. Pundit was definitely there though. How’s one of my favorite dogs?” Jon draws out his phone, relieved that he didn’t have to change the subject himself.

“Look at who just got herself therapy qualified.”

He watches Tommy’s face in the cab on the way back to the hotel, lit up intermittently by the safety lights in the office towers they pass. The years have worn well on Tommy. His few years away taught him a few things about how to stay alive, about putting in as much of yourself as you can, but not too much.  

They’ve all learned, or so Jon hopes.

When they get to the elevator Jon carefully tucks himself into the side wall over by the buttons, as if expecting a large crowd. It’s just the two of them. He’s afraid of his own body, no more so than when they reach their floor and Tommy pulls him in for a hug, a real one, no back-thumping. He smells like he used to, of woodsiness and decency. Of all the memories that he’d been spared, Jon could have left that one behind forever. 

“We gotta work together again, man,” Tommy says, so earnest. It makes Jon’s chest burn. “Come back and visit sometime.” He gives a little wave and he walks down the hall. Does Tommy look sad, or is Jon just seeing everything like a mirror now?

Jon’s feet feel like they’re made of stone. He watches Tommy’s back recede and the hallway wobbles and shimmers in his eyes. Any one of them would have done the same, he thinks. Tommy’s door swings shut, and now he’s alone.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Stars' "One More Night."


End file.
